


Sulfur

by prosodiical



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: F/M, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angela visits John, and they have a conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sulfur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apricot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/gifts).



Knocking on Constantine’s door shouldn’t feel this strange, this nostalgic. The last time she had been here had started what was then the worst few days of her life, but now - now she isn't sure.

He opens it after the first knock, obviously expecting her, but doesn’t step aside to let her pass. Instead he just watches her, as though waiting to see what she'll do. She raises her eyebrows, and after a few seconds begins to shoulder past him. His hand catches on her sleeve and she stops halfway across the threshold.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he says, leaning so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her ear, “coming here.”

She turns to face him. Stuck in the doorway there’s barely an inch of space between them, their noses nearly bumping when she lifts her chin. He smells like nicotine gum and sulfur, and beneath that something soft, like smoke. “It’s probably too late to warn me for that,” she murmurs, “considering.” His eyes flick back to hers, and his eyebrows furrow like she's a puzzle he wants to work out.

“I suppose so.” They stand there for a quiet, extended moment, and then he pulls back. He crosses the room to the far wall like he’s running away, leaving her in the doorway. She steps forward and closes the door behind her. She can nearly sense the flare of protective sigils when she does, wants to touch them and puzzle them out through feeling and intuition alone, but she’s here for a purpose. Still, she allows herself to revel in the sensations, the knowledge; she trails a hand along the length of his table as she walks toward him and sees Beeman, Chas, the ghosts of dead men. It's a warning, but she's tired of listening.

Instinct pulls her toward a side bench against the opposite wall. She pauses over a keyring tossed to a corner, incongruous against the dark wood, but what she’s looking for is underneath. She opens the cupboard doors to discarded weapons: guns of all types, a crossbow, an old flamethrower and a rattling box of cartridges and bullets.

She pulls the box out. John is fiddling with a packet of nicotine gum, pretending he's not watching her, but she notices the weight of his regard like a physical pull. She feels strangely self-conscious, her fingers fumbling with cartridges carved with sigils, their bullets blessed silver and gold. But her hands are steady when she loads them into her handgun, and the nagging itch that's been bothering her diminishes when she holsters it again.

"Are you going to pay for those?" he says. He's leaning on the wall, his arms crossed against his chest. The glass door beside him is open, and a night breeze ruffles his hair. She watches him as he's been watching her, and says,

"I’ll owe you one. Unless…?”

He knows she needs the protection, and she’d like to think she's done him a favor already by hiding away the Spear. John unfolds from the wall and stalks toward her like a feline its prey, and her pulse races but she holds her ground.

He comes close enough she can feel the heat of his body, that if she leans in she could brush her lips against his neck. She wonders if he has any concept of personal space. This time, though, she feels the weight of the protective charm in his hands, and knows what to expect when he leans forward and his fingers brush her hairline. His voice is low when he says, “If you’d keep this  _on_  for once, you shouldn’t need them.”

“Do you really want to chance it?” she asks, leaning forward so her nose brushes the wispy tips his hair, her eyelids fluttering shut as she inhales. And then she thinks  _well, why not,_  and she backs off a little, turns her head half an inch to the left and kisses him.

His breath catches, just from this simple press of her lips on his. The necklace drops and falls down her shirt, and his fingers flit at her neck as if he doesn't know what to do with them. So she presses forward, her fingers twining through his hair, and he submits for nearly a moment, his lips parting in a sigh. Then he steps away, his hands falling to his sides.

He looks mussed from her efforts, pupils blown wide. "Angela," he says, "you shouldn’t do this."

She says, "Shouldn’t I, John?" and she as walks forward he backs out the open glass door to the balcony. He stops at the edge and she crowds him there, bracing her hands on the railing around him. She looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Wouldn't I be a better judge of that?”

"Well. You’re the psychic everyone's set their sights on." His lips quirk in something that might be a smile, dawning understanding in his expression when he tips his head down, and she meets him halfway in a kiss. His hands resting on the curve of her back, he kisses her slowly, gently, like he's not sure he'll get another chance.

His eyes are still closed when she finally hears what she’s been waiting for. She pulls away in an instant, her gun in her hand, and she fires five quick shots all in succession; unearthly screeching, the rending of air with leather wings, and she can’t help but peer into the darkness to see what became of them. The smell of sulfur rises to them, carried by the wind, and she sneaks a glance at John.

He eyes her and says, self-depreciating, “Don’t tell me you kissed me just for that.” He’s braced against the railing still, his back to the open air.

“What do you think?” she asks. He must  _like_  her, certainly, but what else he thinks of her – it’s hard to tell. Psychic ability doesn’t help her interpret his expression. “They’ve been following me for a few days, but never close enough to shoot.”

“Stragglers,” he says, looking thoughtful, and then his mouth twists into a frown. “You set up a lure, didn’t you.”

It isn’t a question. She shrugs absently, holsters her gun, and moves to stand beside him at the balcony. From here, she can feel the tingle of the lure she set on the ground outside, a few stories down, and when she squints and leans forward enough she can still see smoking remains. The charm nearly falls out of her bra, but she catches it by the chain. It dangles from her fingers, gold glinting in the streetlamp light. “Do I still owe you?”

He gives her a sideways glance, filled with emotions she can’t interpret. She’s starting to realize she might want to be able to. She’d asked him to stop killing himself with cigarettes, and he has; she turns the thought over in her head and she suddenly, abruptly knows she doesn't want him to answer the question.

“Coffee,” she interrupts as he opens his mouth to reply, “for repayment. I’m sure there’s a café open somewhere.”

She meets his gaze. He stares at her for a long moment. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, and she might be holding her breath.

“Coffee,” he repeats, and pauses. He takes the chain dangling from her hand and, without the usual fanfare, clips the charm around her neck. Something in his expression flickers and finally resolves into a smile. “Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with Constantine's apartment layout.  
> 


End file.
